Can't Afford
by WhyCan'tIHaveNiceThings
Summary: As far as the gunslinger knew it, the age of heroes was over. Oneshot.


-Just another day in a world without heroes-

 **TOMBSTONE, ARIZONA**

The wind outside whirled and howled like hell, blowing through the vast sands of the wastes.

The door opened with a creak. I stepped inside.

Illumination from the small, oil lantern spread dimly across the darkened room. It was musty, the wooden walls dilapidated, the rickety old floor creaked as feet tread on it, a jingle jangle coming from spurs. A gloved hand placed a needle on a record. It struggled to play.

Time was a luxury I couldn't afford. No, it was loaned.

Wanted. Dead or alive.

The sink was littered with spent casings, small stains of dried blood, wiry strands of hair so brittle that if you were to try and bend it, it would snap. On top of the shelf above the faucet, under the mirror, lay rusted scalpels and bloodied tweezers, next to a burnt out cigar. Scattered were small tablets, painkillers. A switch was hit, the white fixture above lighting up the man in front.

I looked at myself in the reflection. My face, beard unkempt, hair wild. Coarse sand still irritated my scalp. I blinked twice. Wrinkles around the eyes. A rough, worn complexion, skin as tough as hide. My whiskey-diluted mind swam. It's all a dream, isn't it?

Light shined on a prosthetic arm. A vivid sensation, it felt like it was still there, even the digits of my hand as well. I tried moving them, but they refused. The monument to all my sins.

Where metal and flesh met and clashed, were the remnants of ink. 'Deadlock'. My brand, one that will go to the grave with me.

Years had passed. It's ridiculous, never thought I would make it this far. Imagine this, a gunslinger, cornered by a pointed shotgun to his wretched, cold heart. His judgment is the absolute worst, but his hand is steady. Because he could undo life so well, he could just walk over to the right side of the gun. The other choice was to rot. Tantalizing prospect, what a golden deal!

Then came an age of heroes. My eighteen karat streak of bad luck started to turn, it seemed. The crisis of conscience was delayed. From outlaw, to marshal. An old badge still lay under the red cloth around my neck. It was the same as the ink, I could never let go of it. So why'd I drop out so early?

Thing is, I'd known about them, their feud. A rivalry, where pride blackened their hearts. With my keen eye, I saw it coming from a mile away. Where Cain would come to the field, and slay his own brother, only to be condemned in the process. Here is one thing Angels should know: death is inevitable for us mortal beings. And it should've stayed that way.

An old Western movie told me this:

"I'm alive, and I want to remain with the living, understand? And when I'm dead, I want to remain with the dead. And I would be unhappy if somebody living forces me to remain with the living."

Instead, the devil came, with the same old deal as usual. Your soul, for power and fortune, just sign here on the dotted line, please. Gabriel, the man who sold the world, a reaper with a lust for revenge. And Jack? He became a rival, living a lie, the fallen legend. Both of them knew how this would end: pain and suffering.

The record in the back kept on scratching. Exasperated, the Peacekeeper twirled out, aiming to shoot the damn thing. After collecting my thoughts, I stopped, did the more rational choice and put the gun down.

So, after all that, it brings up the question about me. Me? I woke up in a bad dream. For years, I became a phantom, a red stamp on my file declaring me M.I.A. I roamed, floating around my limbo, far above the world. After I dropped off the face of the Earth, I came back to a very, very, rude awakening. It had taken me right into the heart of it. The world was going into chaos. Metal and flesh clashed together on the Eastern front, wars and rumors of wars. A monk assassinated. A heist on a precious weapon. Now, everyone wanted my head on a platter.

My cigar lit, the embers engulfing the end. A hand shielded the small flame, inside the dark room.

This was the time, if not the place, to play my cards.

It all didn't seem right. People were out there, dying, holding out for a savior. I don't know what happened to the rest. What was going to happen? My teeth grit. Smoke puffed out, its aroma filling my nostrils. Something needed to be done. I stared at my own, restless eyes. Idle hands. It hit me.

I live as if there's no tomorrow. But there's still hope for the future. Will I see it in my lifetime? Probably not. So, there's no time to waste, it's a luxury I can't afford. Someday, the world will no longer need me: no need for the gun, or the hand to pull the trigger. There's still a pain that burns the scars of yore.

Perhaps my sins can never die, and I can't wipe the blood staining my hands. My missing arm still ached. I look in the mirror, eyes focused on the tattoo.

My metallic hand crushes the glass. In the fragments that still reflect, my lips tug into a smirk.

The record began to play. An old favorite. "I know that I got a big personality…"

I stepped outside. The sandstorm seemed to lose its frenzy. The sun shone brightly. It was about time I woke up. Wherever justice needed to be dispensed, I would be there. Only the beginning.

A bit closer to heaven.

 **TOMBSTONE, ARIZONA**

-Hero population: 1-


End file.
